Sunday, June 05, 2011

I make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide range of topics; this is how I stay objective. I’m like the ombudsman of fact-free opinion rendering. Given the level of my notoriety in this specialty area, I was unsurprised when no one asked me to record my observations and/or insights relative to the Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout last night.

Things to remember to bring next time:

Bleacher Cushion

Pizza

Pinocle deck

Roller derby is transcendental when it comes to the passage of time. Fanhood requires rising above such trivialities as an hour here, an hour there. What is 90 minutes of clenching your hiney on a wooden bleacher waiting for the opening bell when in the proximity of so many fine athletes dressed up like dominatrixes?

On deck for the bout were Queens of Pain vs Manhattan Mayhem. The Queens of Pain had the practice track first. They spilled out of the locker room decked out in some incredibly stylish black spandex set-ups. A few sported reckless hotpants in a range of glitter tones and neon leopard print. Meanwhile, the Manhattan Mayhem went in for more of a fresh perky mini-dress vibe which may have looked practically normal on a tennis court if the dresses weren’t flaming orange, paired with thigh-high striped socks and accessorized by tattoos representing a wide range of non-sports related themes.

After the opening bell, the track became a whirling vortex of trajectory, ballast and random deathblows. The Queens of Pain dominated from almost minute one and I pumped a shaking fist at the Mayhem’s head coach, a corpulent gentleman in a spirited orange tie. He needs to get off his man cushion and sketch out some fiery plays for the Mayhem playbook. The team had zilch when it came to working together in pursuit of like-minded goals.

The star Mayhem jammer, Anne Frankenstein, had a Night of the Living Dead style I originally perceived as lumbering and kind of tepid. But then I realized that 90% of her game is half mental. While slowly heavy-footing around the track she is doing quantum predictive modeling in her head. At least I think this explains the brief but startling episodes of frisky point-scoring revivals into the world of the living.

The half-time show featuring swing dancers in a sort of musical theatre revival of a Mexican tele-novella definitely trumped the contortionist we’d seen at the Harlem bout. The jeer leader routine was also a right cheery little g-rated sexcapade. Toward the end of half-time, one of the assistant coaches caught my attention. Nothing says roller derby like hoofing a stack of 20 chairs across the gym in four inch princess heels and a striped kaftan hiked up with suspenders.

Post bout, Darcey, Kent, Tom and I sprinted out of the venue in single-minded pursuit of food. We ended up at Yama sushi in Union Square because tic tacs, Swedish fish and two packs of pretzels don’t count as dinner.